


Don't Leave Me This Way

by cognomen, MayGlenn



Series: Greatest Hits of the Seventies [5]
Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Anal Sex, Cooking, Episode Tag: Shootout, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Starsky Loves Food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-04-30 00:27:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14484663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognomen/pseuds/cognomen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayGlenn/pseuds/MayGlenn
Summary: After reading his third magazine, Starsky is practically crawling out of his skin. His head feels better, though he’s pretty sure they’ve given him some very heavy duty painkillers to effect this change, and the one in the way his shoulder feels from the through-and-through gunshot wound that had done a number on his scapula, and the subsequent minor surgery to repair it.That’s all fine. Starsky’s alive, and it’s mostly thanks to his partner’s quick thinking and clever actions in that mixed up restaurant, but he’s alsobored.“Hutch, you gotta bust me out of here,” Starsky says, like a prisoner attempting a jailbreak. “I’m about to start rattling my cup on the cage. Would you believe this place? Limited diet, they said! I’m starving, I can’t just live on jello and chicken broth…”





	1. Chapter 1

By the third magazine, Starsky is practically crawling out of his skin. His head feels better, though he’s pretty sure they’ve given him some very heavy duty painkillers to effect this change, and the one in the way his shoulder feels from the through-and-through gunshot wound that had done a number on his scapula, and the subsequent minor surgery to repair it.

That’s all fine. Starsky’s alive, and it’s mostly thanks to his partner’s quick thinking and clever actions in that mixed up restaurant, but he’s also _bored_. The television only gets the channels with soap operas on them, and there’s not even any baseball on the radio.

When Hutch finally manages to sneak in a cup of coffee that didn’t come from the hospital’s overtaxed vending machine, he catches Starsky trying to get the window open one-handed, as if he were about to escape through it.

“Hutch, you gotta bust me out of here,” Starsky says, like a prisoner attempting a jailbreak. “I’m about to start rattling my cup on the cage. Would you believe this place? Limited diet, they said! I’m starving, I can’t just live on jello and chicken broth…”

Hutch curls one arm protectively around Starsky's middle, enough to draw him gently but irresistibly away from the window to open it himself, just a crack. “Starsky, buddy, you’re not busting out of here. I’ll bring you something to eat. You want me to bring you something to eat?”

“I want you to check me out of this palace of sadism,” Starsky complains, but he doesn’t really even have the strength to resist Hutch’s gentle maneuvering, and he only has one hand that’s not in a sling, so he can hardly fight his way free. “I’m bored, Hutch. This is terrible. I could die in here and the nurses wouldn’t come around and fix it so that the TV wasn’t showing this crud!”

“Starsky, baby,” Hutch sighs, a little exasperated even though he just got here. He plants a kiss on his partner’s temple and reminds himself how close he was to losing him, and that adjusts his mood immediately to one of infinite patience. “I’m sorry, but you gotta stay here. I’ll bring you books? I’ve got cards, you wanna trounce me at something?”

“Full contact football,” Starsky suggests, but he consents to getting back onto the lumpy hospital bed, letting Hutch fuss over him. “I don’t wanna be fussed over, I just wanna go home. I can lay in bed at home, right?”

“You like being fussed over,” Hutch counters, helping him get comfortable and propped up with pillows. Hutch realizes that part of the problem is that it’s the left shoulder, and therefore left arm pinioned against his chest, leaving him unable to use his dominant hand—and Hutch doesn’t think bringing this up as a good opportunity to try learning to use his right hand will go over well. “And at home they won’t catch it in time if your lungs start filling up with blood, so, no. You’re staying right here.”

Starsky gives Hutch his best entreating eyes, but sees he’s getting nowhere, and sighs. “Alright, I’ll take some food and we can play cards. How good are you at poker?”

“You know how good I am at poker: terrible,” Hutch says, grabbing the phone book and laying it out on Starsky’s lap. “You find what you want, and I’ll order up something, and go downstairs and smuggle it up for you.”

But Hutch puts his hand down on the phone book before Starsky can open it. “And in exchange, you don’t try any more stunts.”

“Stunts? Me?” Starsky says, his best impression of innocent. He knows Hutch won’t buy it, but he makes a motion with his hand to cross over his heart, like a kid making a promise. “No stunts. But what am I supposed to do tomorrow, when you have to go back to work?”

Regardless of this, he starts flipping through the book, and points out a chinese food place. “How about a little egg drop soup? Surely that doesn’t even break my liquid diet requirements.”

“See, you _can_ be good,” Hutch teases. “Egg drop soup sounds nice, I’ll get some for me, too. That way if the nurses come in I’ll claim it’s mine.”

He stands up and cards his hand through Starsky’s hair. “Maybe I won’t go into work tomorrow, huh? If you need me here?”  

“I’d rather be _there_ ,” Starsky repeats, petulantly, but he sets the book aside. “Thank you. Bring a lot, okay? I’m really hungry.”

“Okay, okay,” Hutch says, and uses the pay phone at the end of the hall, first to order the food, and then to call Dobey.

“Look, I—I’ll take unpaid leave if I have to, Chief. He’s just so miserable here by himself.”

“And I suppose you’ll be wanting the rest of the week off, to nurse him back to health once he’s sent home?”

“Well, I mean, _someone’s_ got to—”

Dobey doesn’t let him finish. He’s a gruff man, but kind-hearted deep down. “It’s all right, I get it. Maybe we’ll call it family medical leave. Next week I need you to come in on half days, though. Maybe Starsky, too, just to get him out of the house.”

Hutch smiles. “Yeah. You’ll never see a man so glad to file reports.”

“I had better. You’re responsible for him, Hutch!”

“Yes, sir.”

Then he goes downstairs to wait for the food to be delivered.

Probably half of Starsky’s problem is the lack of calories making him restless and irritable. He’ll feel better if Hutch is here, and if he’s got food. True to his word, he’s waiting when Hutch sneaks back in with the bag that smells good enough to make his stomach growl. “Ah, you’re a prince. Did the nurses see?”

Hutch huffs, offended. “You’re the one who always gets into trouble, mister, and it’s because I know how to not get caught.”

“That’s not true at all and you know it,” Starsky says, reaching out for the food with his good hand.

“Okay, you’re right, it’s because I’m the cute one, so no one ever suspects me,” Hutch concedes.

He pulls the tray table across Starsky’s lap and lays a spoon out on his right side. Then he goes back and barricades the door so they can eat in peace. “Think that’ll hold if we decide to fool around a bit?”

“ _What_?” Starsky laughs. “Wow these painkillers are pretty serious, I just had the most vivid hallucination of you suggesting we do something really crazy.”

“Here now I thought you wanted some adventure,” Hutch says, at ease now that he’s off the hook at work. He thinks he could even stay the night, go back for clothes and things in the morning.

Starsky is already digging in the bag for the soup, finding two little bowls and a big carton, and he’s happy to split with Hutch, pouring them each a bowl. He’s glad to find that there’s enough extra for a refill, though after a couple of clumsy right-handed attempts with the spoon, Starsky gives up and just drinks from the bowl.

“You want me to feed you?” Hutch offers, making zooming motions with his own spoon. Before Starsky can get indignant, he laughs and puts his own spoon down to join Starsky in drinking his soup. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Should I deal? What do you want to play? You got enough water or you want me to run down the hall?”

“I got enough water,” Starsky promises, making a gesture toward the pitcher on the plastic hospital bedside. “I don’t care what we play, but you have to shuffle.”

Starsky finishes a second bowl and polishes off what’s in the container after offering a chance for seconds to Hutch, clearly enjoying every ounce of it, even if it is a bit salty. It’s healing food, as far as he’s concerned. When the tray is cleared, Starsky lets Hutch deal.

“I mean, if poker’s not your thing, we could always try old maid,” Starsky says, giving Hutch a wink.

“Hey man, watch it,” Hutch says, taking the empty soup bowls away to toss. “Dobey and the nurses all say I'm responsible for you. I don't _have_ to be nice to you, like bring you Chinese food, you know.”

“You do if you want me to live,” Starsky says, earnestly, as if it were a very likely possibility that he _would_ die, without Chinese food. He leans on the table, chin in his one good palm. “Well, what do _you_ want to play then?”

“Hey, don’t even joke about that,” Hutch admonishes, curling a stern fist into his hospital gown, staring at him until he gets an answer.

“It’s no joke,” Starsky says. “When a guy’s hungry, he’s hungry. But I promise, I’ll be fit as a fiddle in just a couple days.”

“Okay. Let’s just play a few rounds of rummy. Or gin rummy? I might have a chance with that.”

“I never played that,” Starsky says. “Teach me how, that should kill a few hours.”

“Again?” Hutch complains, but this happens every time and mostly ends up with Starsky hustling the hell out of him—and so it would have tonight, if they had anything to bet with.

When the nurses come by and tell him that visiting time is over, Hutch tells them he plans to stay and weathers the range of ‘...That’s weird, I thought the patient was a grown man’ to ‘Aww!’ looks that he gets, but they leave him alone.

“Alright, let me help you to the bathroom, buddy. No stunts, and I promise I’ll let you be once we get there,” Hutch says, turning down the blankets and helping Starsky slide his feet out of the bed and onto the floor.

“Hey, I can do this,” Starsky assures Hutch. “There’s nothing wrong with my legs, you know.”

However, he humors his partner and leans on him a little, more for the contact than the support, before shutting himself inside and Hutch outside of the bathroom. He does yelp a little at how cold the seat is—couldn’t the hospital afford a little _heat_?

“You can go home if you wanna get some sleep,” Starsky continues, swinging the door open as he washes his hand—little awkward with only one, but he manages with a wash cloth. “That chair is not very comfortable.”

“More comfortable than going home and being worried you’re trying to stage a breakout all night,” Hutch chuckles, arranging the chair into something like a bed. “At least here I can keep an eye on you, and in the morning we’ll both be cranky.”

Hutch winks, and wonders if he could just scootch Starsky over and cuddle up to him in that hospital bed…

Starsky shifts over, giving Hutch room on his uninjured side and patting the bed next to him. “You better watch out for the nurses, though. They’ll come in at five with my meds, alright?”

“Right. I won’t scandalize anyone,” Hutch promises.

In truth, Starsky’ll be glad for the company at least for one really practical reason; it was _cold_ in the hospital and they only gave him one thin little blanket. When Hutch gets in with him, it’s immediately warmer, and Starsky eases his good arm under Hutch’s shoulders so they can lay side by side, as comfortable as they can manage.

“Did you ever get laid up in the hospital when you were a kid?” Starsky asks. “I broke my arm once falling off the jungle gym.”

“Sounds like you,” Hutch chuckles, sliding one leg over Starsky’s thighs and curling his arm low around his stomach, careful not to jar his arm. “You know me. Always careful. Had my tonsils out when I was twelve, though. Hospitals rot. This okay? You comfy? Want the bed up or down?”

“Tonsils, huh? I hear they give you all the ice cream you can eat after that,” Starsky mutters, pulling Hutch closer, leaning his head on Hutch’s shoulder as best he can. “Think we can get out of here tomorrow?”

“Well,” Hutch hums, pulling Starsky carefully into his arms so he can run his fingers through his hair so Starsky stops _squirming_ , “maybe, if you’re a very good boy, and eat all your vegetables and listen to the nice nurses...Santa will let you out of the hospital soon.”

Starsky elbows him in the side with his good arm, but he can’t get very much room to gather momentum so it’s more of a forceful nudge. “I was nice to you when you were laid up.”

He shifts at least once more, and then yawns. “Besides, you missed my point about ‘all the ice cream I could eat’.”

Hutch laughs until Starsky is bouncing on his chest and he's worried that might hurt him, so he trails off into a chuckle.

“Okay, okay. The ice cream I can do,” he says, rubbing the back of Starsky’s neck. “But busting you out of the hospital when you're still in danger of hemorrhaging into your lungs is not ‘nice.’ So, ice cream, but we stay here.”

“Deal,” Starsky grumbles, feeling better to know Hutch was here with him, regardless of what else has happened, and it’s that comfort that lets him drift off to sleep so quickly.


	2. Chapter 2

Several days later they give Starsky the all clear, and start to pull him off the more heavy duty pain medications, which leaves him at first grouchy, and then afterwards sleepy. He consents to going home with Hutch for at least the first day, which turns into a couple days. 

Except Hutch keeps trying to feed him rabbit food. On the fourth day, Starsky busts out, and takes himself and his slung up arm up the block to get a pizza. 

He doesn’t make it that far, as Hutch is heading back from his first attempt at a half-day back from work and sees Starsky  _ walking down the street. _ He pulls his junker over with a screech. 

“Starsky!” he exclaims, getting out of the car. “What’s the matter? I told you I was gonna do some paperwork today for Dobey, you could have called, man, what do you need?” 

“Nothing’s the matter, Hutch, I was gonna get some exercise,” Starsky says, though he feels good to see his partner, even if he knows Hutch is overreacting, already. He answers Hutch’s glare with a one-sided shrug. “And I was gonna get some nourishing food. Not body-food, soul food. You want some pizza?”

“I...not really,” Hutch says, flabbergasted. “Can I go with you? You're looking a little pale, buddy. You want me to order a pizza for delivery so we can go home?”

“Hutch, if I was gonna keel over, I’d have done it already,” Starsky reassures him; even if the exertion is making him feel a little sweaty he’s pretty sure that’s a combination of spending a week sitting around and the last effects of the painkillers sweating out. “Besides, I wanna get out of the house. It’s driving me crazy being inside all the time, doesn’t it make you nuts? So, let’s go sit in the pizza parlour. I’m pale because all you fed me is spinach and I haven’t seen the sun in a week.”

“Okay, partner, okay,” Hutch says, humoring him, patting the small of his back to let him know he's here. He leaves the car where he parked it, even if the parking job is crooked, and doesn't bother locking it. “What you need is lean protein. I'd take you for fish tacos before pizza. How about that? My treat?”

Starsky gives him a long look, as if deciding how far to push for what he wants, but his body hears  _ protein _ and approves, so if Hutch can make a compromise, so can Starsky. “Where do you usually go for those? You know what kinda fish they use?”

“Tilapia, I think,” Hutch says, redirecting Starsky with a very slight nudge. “There's a place closer to my house, actually. I'm sorry, buddy, you really gotta let me  _ know _ if you need something. I'll get you as many tacos as you want.”

“Hutch, partner,” Starsky says, allowing himself to be redirected in good humor. “ _ By now _ you should know that I’m only gonna eat rabbit food for a couple days without putting up a fight. I may love you, but I wouldn’t go hungry for you.”

A wink suggests that’s more of a tease than any real complaint. “Besides, will you look at the day? It’s a nice day. We live in California. Normally you’d be happy to see me off the couch, right?”

“All right, all  _ right _ ,” Hutch says, good-naturedly offended. “I don't know what's come over me. One minute my partner almost dies on me and the next minute I'm behaving irrationally. If only we could find a connection.”

Hutch winks, too, to let Starsky know he is joking, though he was, and is, worried about him.

“It’s alright, except you did the same thing to me when I tried to keep you cooped up for your recovery time, too, huh?” Starsky swats Hutch on the butt as he spots the taco stand, perking up and quickening his pace at the promise of food.

“I'm sorry I've been keeping you cooped up. I brought some paperwork back if you're feeling really ambitious, or maybe I could invite some girls over for a dinner party? Oh hey, you remember the comic from the club, and his girl? They want to take us out to eat or something.”

“Hey, that sounds great. How are they doing, aside from having a lot of long talks about their relationship?” Starsky wonders, amiably. “I don’t remember a whole lot of what was going on there, but from what you said they had some stuff to talk about.”

“Sounds like they’re back together, and very happy. Vegas has been postponed, but I don’t think they care.” 

The fish shack is here where the residential area turns into beachy scrub. It’s an unassuming building, but Hutch assures Starsky it’ll be worth it. “There’s all kinds, you can get spicy ones or citrus ones. Get as many as you like, buddy. They also have good french fries, if you want some?” 

(Hutch is not entirely without vices, of course.) 

“Let’s split an order, right? What are you gonna get?” Starsky asks, and then seems to reconsider. “No, you know what, never mind. Spicy sounds good.”

Hutch laughs, ordering a full basket of tacos and fries for each of them and tipping well. 

They pick a table out on the beach, which isn’t much of one on the canals, but it’s been prettied up for customers and there’s shady trees and Starsky enjoys a chance to just sit down and soak up the sun, and the baskets of tacos and fries they bring out are welcome enough that Starsky has to go back for seconds before fifteen minutes has passed.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” Starsky accuses Hutch, mouth half full of food. 

“Well, look at you, you’re going to eat them out of business,” Hutch grins, glad to see the color returning to Starsky’s cheeks, and glad to see that eating one-handed doesn’t even hold him back. “They have odd hours, mostly when we’re at work. We’ll come here again, though.” 

But they’re sitting on a bench with no back, and it doesn’t take long for Hutch to worry. “How’s your shoulder?” 

“A little sore, but that’s to be expected,” Starsky says, sitting back with a satisfied groan and patting his stomach. “Thanks, Hutch, I feel like a million bucks. I’m even ready for some paperwork.”

They both know he can say it now, but shortly after he starts he’ll probably change his mind. 

Hutch rolls his eyes, knowing false bravado when he sees it. “Okay, big guy. Let's get you home. You feel like taking the scenic route, or you done posturing for the day?”

“I mean, I could just lay down on a nice sun warmed rock and digest for a little while,” Starsky says, lifting himself off the bench. “But I’m not that fragile. Let’s take the nice route home, it’ll do me good to get the exercise. Plus, that much longer ‘till paperwork.”

Hutch shakes his head, squeezing the back of Starsky’s neck, massaging where the sling rests heavy on his opposite shoulder. “You’re a marvel. Come on, I’ll show you the best sunning spot.”

Hutch leads them on a sandy path down to the beach proper, where the wind picks up and the sand gets in their shoes, and Hutch has to (or wants to) reach out to support Starsky as they walk over the uneven ground. When they hook around, he points up. “Think you can handle some stairs?”

Starsky is already feeling a little bit like he might have overdone it, but he nods manfully, before giving Hutch an almost playful look. “Why, are you offering to carry me again if I can’t?”

“No, I’m hoping you’ll fall asleep and not bother me until dinner time,” Hutch teases, squeezing Starsky’s arm because he can’t kiss him. “But of course I would carry you. And never let you hear the end of it.” 

Starsky might not remember much about what had gone on after he’d been shot, but he remembers Hutch lifting him up, that desperation and worry had made it seem almost effortless. 

“Anytime you  _ want  _ me to carry you, I’m glad to do it. It’s you almost dying that puts a damper on it,” Hutch concludes. 

When they’re up the stairs, though Starsky is huffing, the view is nice from up here, and the sun is bright and warm, and there’s a little patch of grass. 

Starsky sees what this is in an instant; clearly a park, but a nice park. Hutch’s makeout spot. It almost makes him laugh, except he’s still catching his breath from all the stairs. “We should have brought a blanket. I know we ate all that food down there, but you must have some great picnics up here, huh?”

“I’ll take you on a picnic here tomorrow, if you’re jealous,” Hutch teases, but he means it.

“Maybe a little,” Starsky says, giving Hutch a wink to show it’s no hard feelings, and starts to sit down, but he’s tired enough that he almost goes down harder than he wants, though Hutch catches him and lowers him down, before Starsky gets his balance, and then leans on Hutch’s shoulder. “So’d you get any cool cases today, or just all paperwork?” 

Hutch sits behind Starsky so he can lean against him, and dares to press a kiss to his hair, now that they are alone. “Nah, nothing good. A few cut and dry cases the uniforms brought in. Helped an old lady get her cat down from the tree—almost called you for that one. I know how you dig old chicks.” 

“Present company included,” Starsky shoots back, taking Hutch’s hand and holding onto it. “Besides, cats in trees? That’s definitely for you. Sorry I missed seeing you climb up it. Must have been some view. You know, if you’re not careful, the whole neighborhood’s going to start losing their cats up trees.”

Hutch chuckles softly, enjoying the sun and enjoying Starsky. He insists, “I’m telling you, they were hoping they’d get you. Hey, Theresa wants to bring by some of that linguini with clams you ordered and never got to enjoy. I told her tomorrow would be okay. So, you see, I’m not going to entirely starve you.” 

“How’d things go with Theresa?” Starsky wonders. “She’s a good kid. Made some bad decisions. I guess if she still wants to hang out with us, they can’t be slapping her with conspiracy to commit, huh?”

For this, Starsky looks at Hutch as if to gauge exactly how easy he’d gone on her in his statement. Hutch has a big weakness for a hard luck story and lovely eyes, so maybe she’d get off with a lighter charge and some community service. Starsky doesn’t get the feeling that she’s the repeat offender sort.

“Nah, she’s got a pretty good case for coercion, and she helped us out big time, or we’d’ve never left that restaurant alive.” Hutch squeezes Starsky’s hand and then gets an idea, scooting back carefully until Starsky can lean back all the way, with his head in his lap. “How’s that?” 

“That is ideal,” Starsky says, smiling up at him with a quirk of his eyebrows that’s both charming and rakish. “What a great view.”

As if he doesn’t have a care in the world, Starsky reaches up and pulls Hutch down for a kiss. It doesn’t last very long, awkward as it is, but enough to express how much Starsky appreciates his partner, even if he sometimes forgets what food really is. 

Hutch can’t answer back, but gives Starsky a bashful smile, unsure how his partner can always make him blush so easily. He rests a hand lightly on his chest and traces his jaw with a fingertip. “You, ah—you could probably use a shave, you know. Starting to look a little less Paul Muni and a little more Tevye.” 

“Tevye is old,” Starsky rebukes. 

It’s actually a  _ good  _ look, if Hutch is honest with himself, because he appreciates how hairy Starsky is, generally, and he especially likes how tight his curls have gotten without him picking them out within an inch of their lives every day. 

“Young Tevye, then. Can you not shave right-handed?” Now he’s teasing again. “I’m telling you, it’s just unsafe, refusing to adapt to a right-handed world. I’m not going to come to your rescue every time you need to use a chainsaw.” 

“I can use a chainsaw fine,” Starsky answers, reaching up to rub a hand over his face—a little scratchy, but not too bad in his opinion. “But I wouldn’t want to use a chainsaw to shave, or I’ll never get to the part where I have seven daughters.” 

Hutch throws his head back to laugh this time. “Okay, okay. Maybe when you're  _ much _ older.”

Starsky pokes Hutch in the belly for emphasis, with his good hand. “Besides, I never complain when you stop shaving, even though it always looks horrible.”

“It just takes  _ time _ before it looks good,” Hutch whines. “Not all of us can look like a sex god without any work. You're infuriating.”

“Who says it’s no work?” Starsky says, laughing. 

Hutch sighs loudly, running his hand through Starsky’s hair. “I don't know why I love you so much.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Starsky agrees, feeling warm from more than just the pleasant sunlight shining down on them and how grateful he is to be alive and here still. It’s mostly Hutch’s affection that feels so warm, and Starsky gets why the girls are so crazy for him, too. “Hey, when I got both my arms back, why don’t you let me make you some spaghetti. I make a sauce that’ll knock your socks off.”

“If you let me help, you'd have three good arms,” Hutch offers. “I even promise not to commentate on how much butter you put in. I could swing by the store when I come back for my car, you tell me what you pick up…we’ll make a date of it.” 

“You have all the good ideas,” Starsky tells him, with a grin. “Deal. Now uh, you wanna help me up? I think I blew my energy budget for the day.”


	3. Chapter 3

The next day after work, Hutch actually brings back most of what’s on Starsky’s list, which as far as Starsky is concerned is a minor miracle. Maybe he’ll have to get shot more often if that’s what it takes to get his partner to think of food as food, instead of eating nothing but minerals and fasting. Starsky has his kitchen cleaned up—dishes dried and put away, all the surfaces prepped and clean—by the time Hutch gets home. 

“You’d better chop the veggies,” Starsky suggests, once everything is laid out to his satisfaction. “I’ll get the meat going. I can manage that one handed, more or less. The key here is a fine dice, and lots of green peppers, okay?” 

Hutch is so surprised there  _ are  _ vegetables involved that he's only too glad to take Starsky’s instruction, and follows it to the letter, giving him, in the end, possibly more vegetables than he asked for, but with a winning smile. 

“Is the wine for adding to the sauce, or drinking?” Hutch asks, popping the cork, because this does take two hands. 

“Two cups go in the sauce,” Starsky says. “The rest is best drunk while we cook.”

He says the last earnestly, leaning back against Hutch just for the contact while they move around each other in the kitchen. He pauses to snatch a couple of pieces of bell pepper, crunching them between his teeth, before he checks the consistency of the sauce going on the stove, and tells Hutch to drain the ground beef before he adds all that in.

Hutch continues to assist while the wine rests, helping Starksy with these two-handed jobs mainly as an excuse to put his arms around him and kiss his neck. 

“If my Ma ever calls and asks, I don’t put any parmesan on my pasta, alright?” Starsky confides in Hutch, before Hutch hands him a wine-glass that he’s glad to be able to drink, now that all he gets to take for pain is Tylenol. 

“But you do?” Hutch asks, clinking their glasses together. “Does she think it's bad?”

“It’s fine if I don’t put any meat in the sauce,” Starsky explains, “but who wants pasta sauce without any meat? And who wants pasta without a little extra cheese on top, right?”

It’s funny, coming from a man who Hutch has seen eat hotdogs, but he hardly mentions that on the phone with his mother, either. Some things, you just don’t tattle about.

Hutch opens his mouth, and then shuts it again, feeling stupid. They've had this conversation before, but it's usually  _ obvious  _ things, like,  _ don't tell my Ma I'm eating half a pound of bacon… _

Hutch smiles. “Well, partner, offer still stands: anytime you want to go vegan, I'll go with you.”

“No way no how, and you couldn't do it either,” Starsky fires back. “You'd have to give up those crocodile shoes you're so crazy about, and I'd miss your leather jackets.”

He gives the sauce a stir and a taste, adds some oregano and makes Hutch crack some pepper in, and tests again, then offers some to Hutch.

“See? Nothing beats home cooked, right?”

Hutch has his arms around Starsky and his head resting on one shoulder so no, nothing beats this. He reflects on the flavor, savors the taste for a bit, and then laughs, like he's surprised, even though he shouldn't be. “Yeah, that is really good.”

“Be still my heart, you  _ can _ be taught,” Starsky emphasizes, dramatically, leaning his body back against Hutch’s while he puts the finishing touches on the sauce and then covers it up to simmer. “C’mon that needs to cook for a couple hours. You got any ideas how we can fill the time?”

Hutch chuckles lewdly before he can help himself, and love-bites Starsky’s shoulder. “Only because thank-God-you’re-alive-sex should happen before a heavy meal, not after. Unless you’d rather do paperwork…?” 

Starsky gives Hutch a dirty look, but lets the second offer slide, instead giving him a shove back to pin him against his own refrigerator before turning around in Hutch’s arms, giving him a long, deep kiss that tastes like all the ingredients he’d been checking as he went along, running his good hand up Hutch’s belly and chest, before he leans back, just little. “Yeah, you’re right. Paperwork.”

“Augh,” Hutch laughs, squeezing Starsky’s ass in retaliation. “I can’t believe you got me.” 

Starsky  _ always  _ gets jokes over on him, though, so he’s more bemused than surprised, really, and kisses his nose. But the joke is on Starsky when he sees the cases Hutch brought back—he curated them a little to select the more boring ones, mainly so Starsky wouldn’t feel like there was anything exciting happening back at the precinct without him—and the fact that he has to figure out right-handed annotation or dictate to Hutch. 

But even doing boring casework cuddled up on the couch with Starsky isn’t so bad. 

It’s actually the best casework Starsky has ever done, with his bare feet tucked up under a throw blanket and Hutch doing all the writing, honestly. He manages to half sign his name where it’s required, but the casework is way less interesting than watching Hutch focus, watching his eyes move over the work, watching his big hands hold a pen.

Every so often Starsky just slides his hand along the inside of Hutch’s thigh to create a distraction. It’s not like they’re really on a deadline, after all. “You know I think Dobey should institute a program. I feel so much more productive like this.”

“You touch all the girls like this when you study together?” Hutch asks Starsky’s wandering hand after the fifth time, and raps his knuckles with the pen. 

“I mean, only the pretty ones,” Starsky says, by way of backhanded compliment, retrieving his stung hand to shake out the pain, before he takes Hutch’s pen. “You know, the real blonde, blue-eyed beauties.”

“Mm, and what if I'm not a real blond, hm?” Hutch asks in a silly mood, surrendering the pen and setting their work aside with it. He has Starksy mostly cornered against the side of the couch, and his eyes and hair and clothes and mood are all so soft it makes Hutch want to touch every part of him. “Would you still think I'm pretty?”

“First of all, I know that’s not true,” Starsky chuckles, getting his palm over the front of Hutch’s pants for an affectionate squeeze. “Second of all, even if you lost all your hair, you’d still be the prettiest person I’ve ever laid eyes on. Why, are you thinking of going back to your natural color? Now there’s a thought.” 

Leaning back against the arm of the couch, so that his slung up arm was braced comfortably between his body and the couch back, Starsky pulls Hutch over him for a kiss, and then stops, pushing him back so he can laugh. “Don’t tell me! You’re really a redhead. Kenneth Hutchinson, you’ve fooled us all.” 

Hutch is pursing his lips for another kiss when Starsky makes him laugh again. “You've found me out. Mother had to dye my hair so I wouldn't look adopted.”

He leans in to kiss Starsky warmly, propping himself up on one arm so he doesn't crush him, and works his knee between Starsky’s legs to rub against him gently. “I'll have to figure out some way to make you forget my secret, you know. Maybe fuck your brains out and hide the peroxide.”

“I’m pretty sure that’ll make it more memorable,” Starsky tells Hutch, shifting to take advantage of Hutch’s offer of a living surface to rub against. “But your secret’s safe with me.”

“It better be, if you want your cheese habits to be safe with me,” Hutch purrs, rocking against Starsky in time to his movements.

Starsky has only a little trouble getting Hutch’s button undone one handed, and getting his hand down the front of Hutch’s pants afterwards to stroke his cock. It probably won’t get too much fancier while Starsky’s still halfway incapacitated but, well, nothing wrong with this, anyway. 

“Hey, easy, boy, we’ve got time,” Hutch warns, taking Starsky’s hand and kissing it, and laughing, “though I  _ should  _ make you practice this right-handed.” 

“You never complained about a left-handed handjob before,” Starsky reminds him. 

“Not when it’s the only kind you’re good at,” Hutch points out. Moving him gently and carefully, but with an air of determination that tells Starsky to just relax and let it happen, Hutch rolls him onto his side, on his good shoulder, facing the back of the couch. 

“Easy…” One hand on the middle of his back, Hutch slides Starsky’s soft pants down to his ankles, where the elastic bunches up with the blanket still covering his feet. He’s gone for half a second to get lube and protection—mostly against the mess—and rolls a condom on Starsky first just so he can get a hand on him. Hutch hooks an arm under Starsky’s head as he scoots in behind him, sighing in his ear, “It’s been a while since you let me take care of you like this, baby.” 

Starsky relaxes back against him, untangling one foot from his pants so he can get his knees open a little more and make things easier for both of them, as he eases his foot behind Hutch’s legs so they’re both comfortable and balanced. Starsky can hardly repay the favor this way, because his good hand is trapped between him and the back of the couch, but he can get his hand over Hutch’s to stroke approvingly over the backs of his knuckles, to feel the motion of bone and tendon from the other side. 

“Normally we’re taking care of each other,” Starsky agrees, with a sigh as he leans his head back against Hutch’s shoulder, for once not in any kind of rush. They were normally so eager for each other, not that Starsky ever felt that as a bad thing, but in this case he can just melt into the warmth of Hutch’s body behind his, and feel the slow pooling and building of pleasure in his belly. He says, ‘Hutch’, because it feels good to say, better to gasp, and it’s the only thing on his mind at the moment anyway, like giving a name to what’s making Starsky feel so good. If he has anything else to add, he doesn’t manage to get there. 

“And we are,” Hutch murmurs, kissing his neck and feeling Starsky shiver beneath him. “You are. Just let me.” 

He works him open slow and easy. Like with everything, at first his partner is tight, high-strung, difficult, but once he gets Starsky loosened up, he turns to complete putty for Hutch. Hutch rewards him with gentle kisses in his hair and an easy massage of his prostate. “I need to spend an hour working on you tomorrow. You’re all tight— _ everywhere _ .” 

“My shoulder gets store,” Starsky admits, panting, because there’s no sense trying to be dishonest with your partner’s fingers up your ass. “Then everything follows. Mmm!”

He means an actual massage, but he’d gladly spend an hour just on Starsky’s prostate like this, too. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m gonna look after you, beautiful.” 

Starsky agrees, silently only because words would mean he’d have to get his thoughts together enough to line them up into something like a sensible order. Hutch was beautiful, too, and deserved to be looked after, and maybe they were the only two capable of keeping up with each other. He’s not gonna last long like this, but Starsky tries to hold out as long as he can, measuring his breathing, closing his eyes and focusing, a long slow groan pouring out of him in warning before he manages to get his voice to work. “I’m ready for you now, if you’re gonna—”

“Yeah,” Hutch says, kissing his neck, his jaw, pressing himself against Starsky’s warm body as he fucks into him, the movement smooth and slow, and practiced. He likes it to be easy for Starsky, wants it to feel good. He likes to impress, and rolls his hips in tiny controlled motions that punch gasps out of his partner. 

Every time Starsky tries to move, Hutch holds him, shushes him, runs fingertips teasing up and down his cock. “Shh, sweetheart. Don’t move, I’ve got you, baby. Just want you to feel good.” 

Bracing himself against the couch with his good hand, Starsky holds himself in place and just lets Hutch take control for once, because it feels amazing. A slow, simmering build of heat under his skin as his gasps become low moans, almost mindless. His body is just  _ answering _ , and he doesn’t have to think about it, Hutch works him over with the intimate knowledge that doesn’t require any discovery or experimentation. 

“Hutch,” he warns, and it comes out high, startled, before Starsky surges over the edge on momentum, like hurtling down a hill full tilt until it carried you pinwheeling over a cliff. He groans, and his body squeezes down on Hutch, pulls him closer, and Starsky gets a fistfull of the couch and pushes back as he rides it out. 

“Hey, hey,” Hutch tries to say sternly when Starsky’s whole body ripples, but his voice catches, too, when Starsky clenches around him and comes, sudden and beautiful. “Alright, easy, relax, sweetheart. I've got you. You're good, you're so good, babe.”

Hutch groans out his own orgasm, squeezing Starsky about half as hard as he wants to, hips jacking half as fast as he wants to, but it's still good, amazing, even, though it's not supposed to be for him. “I love you, Starsky. Love you, you and your Italian food fetish that almost gets us killed.”

“Love  _ you _ and your dumb health food,” Starsky mutters back, because he supposes that deserves some sort of answer. 

They lay together, breathless and grinning. It's easier to joke about it like this. “You worry me like that again, this is what's in store for you, you know. I'll fuck you within an inch of your life, understand?”

Starsky laughs, warm and lazy. “Yes, officer, I understand. I feel sufficiently chastised.”

With a long stretch, which rubs him catlike against Hutch’s whole front, Starsky finally shifts, easing over carefully, mindful of his injured arm but he gets far enough that he can kiss Hutch, not just his mouth but his forehead, which is a little sweaty, and his very fine hair is stuck to it, and then his neck, his cheek. 

“You know what? I think I’m hungry now,” Starsky says, sounding perkier than he probably should for all of Hutch’s efforts, but it’s only because he feels good. “How ‘bout some pasta, huh?”

Hutch beams at him, cataloguing what he loves about his partner: his messiness, his irrepressibility, his vitality, his contagious joy. “Okay, partner. Let's have some pasta.”

They get up and clean up, and Starsky at least trusts him to cook pasta, so he boils water, lies about adding salt to the boiling water, though he does add more olive oil, and lets Starsky sit back and finish his wine with a vaguely fucked-out glow. 

It's a good look on him. 

Starsky is watching Hutch with the same intent expression, clearly enjoying watching him move confidently around his own kitchen, and the wine is better with all the endorphins running through Starsky’s system anyway. Besides, Hutch just looks good with his hair a little messed up. 

“What do you think about me going back in on Monday?” Starsky asks. “It’ll be good for me to get back to work. I’ll stay at the station.”

Hutch usually tries to speak thoughtfully, but here the pause is a little longer than usual. “Uhh, is that what you want to do?” 

“Yeah,” Starsky laughs. “I wasn’t hoping you’d talk me out of it.”

Then Hutch realizes how hedged he sounds, so he laughs. “Sorry, I’m not your Ma, or your doctor. They say it was okay for you to go back to the office like this?”

“I’m off all the major painkillers and cleared for light duty,” Starsky assures him. “I mean honestly, I’d rather go all the way back, I’m getting bored of soap operas.”

Hutch tastes the pasta, and gives Starsky a nibble to test for doneness before he drains it. “Maybe I just like having you all to myself.”  

Starsky laughs. “You’ll forget the novelty the next time a lovely lady with long legs crosses your path. Besides, there’s such a thing as too much of a good thing.”

“That’s not true,” Hutch says, playing at being wounded. “I like short girls, too. And short guys.” 

He winks as he leans in for a kiss. “How about you let me get you a plate, huh?” 

“Okay,” Starsky allows, settling in at Hutch’s little kitchen table and getting comfortable, waiting for Hutch to join him with both plates. The food is hot and fresh and he even forgives Hutch for lying about the salt in the pasta because it’s still delicious. “Thanks, partner. We should do this more often.”

“Lets certainly not wait until someone gets shot,” Hutch agrees, as he digs in and refills Starsky's wine.


End file.
